


A Family of my Own

by puffintalia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Animal Rescue, Gen, i kinda cant believe theres an actual mr puffin character tag, ice is a dad now, reluctantly, what do i even tag this with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25109419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puffintalia/pseuds/puffintalia
Summary: One puffin was bad enough. But now he's found two more, and to make it worse, one of them is injured and there's no way they're getting to the animal shelter in this weather. And so, reluctantly, Iceland must learn to be a dad, of sorts.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22





	A Family of my Own

**Author's Note:**

> look this is short and it will hopefully be continued but maybe not im just writing it to try get over Writers Block TM also writing a fic that starts with the word "honk" is just Fun

“Honk,” said Mr. Puffin, for the third time that minute. 

Iceland slammed the laptop closed. “I am trying to concentrate! Just because you don’t know what work is doesn’t mean no one else has to do it! I filled your food bowl half an hour ago, if you want water, there is a literal waterfall out back. Go play in that.”

“Honk,” said Mr. Puffin, dejected. “Honk honk.” 

“Fine, but it better be worth it.”

He got up and shoved his boots on, hobbling to the door as he tugged his coat over his jumper. “What?” Iceland said. The puffin glared at him, an air of exasperation ruffling his feathers.

He half-flew, half-waddled through the front door, checking to make sure Iceland was actually following him. Satisfied, he took off.

“Hey, wait up! Idiot bird.” Iceland ran after him as he soared in a wide arc toward the cliffs, coming to rest on a stack of mossy rocks, honking indignantly. “Believe it or not, I can’t fly like you.” 

Mr Puffin cocked his head and Iceland scrambled over the stones, his untied shoes slipping on the wet pebbles. 

In a small hollow in the side of the slope was a burrow, sheltered from the torrential arctic rain. Shards of eggshells littered a floor of dried brown grass, trailing up to… Oh.

A pair of eyes stared back at him, wide and unblinking. 

“Honk,” said Mr Puffin, sadly. He pattered over to the other puffin, butting his beak against its in some sort of greeting. As if pointing, he ducked his head to its wing. “Honk.”

Iceland knelt on the cold mud and leant down, hesitating. The puffin shifted away and he saw a flash of blood against the dark feathers. “You’re hurt… Poor thing. It’s okay, I’ll help you.”

It squirmed away again and a tiny head popped out from under its healthy wing, quickly followed by another. As the puffling stumbled out from under its mother’s wing, Mr Puffin honked at them, herding them toward Iceland. It was probably the softest, most caring honk he’d ever honked, looking up at his friend with big, pleading eyes. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll look after them for you too.”

The puffling was only about a week old, judging from its size. It tottered toward him as Mr Puffin nudged them into his palms.

Huh.  _ Huh. _ It was soft and downy, like a tiny pompom. Raindrops clung to its tiny feathers and he cupped his hands around them, trying to keep them out of the storm. As it stared up at him, Iceland couldn’t help but feel blessed that these wild, adorable creatures had come to  _ him _ for help. The puffling shivered and he drew them in closer, hoping his own body heat would keep them warm.

“Honk,” Mr Puffin said. He was right. Best not to get distracted.

Maybe seeing her chicks take to him so quickly made the mother puffin trust him more, because she was already emerging from her nest. On her right, her feathers were clumped together and matted with blood, the damaged wing dragging along the ground as she limped toward him. She staggered back and forth in the buffeting wind, falling into Iceland’s arms as he scooped her up, Mr Puffin fluttering onto his shoulder. 

The quick march home seemed to stretch an eternity, but they managed it eventually, the puffling nestled comfortable under his coat. As he fumbled with the doorknob, Mr Puffin started to grow restless, ramming the top of his head into Iceland’s hair. 

“Honk.”

“I’m trying! I only have two hands, you know.”

The door opened and they fell through, Mr Puffin swooping onto the kitchen counter. Iceland placed the other puffin on the table, turning the lamp on to take a better look. 

“Can you get the - yeah, that’s it.” 

Mr Puffin dropped the first aid kit and the spare towel on the table with an impatient  _ honk _ .

It was hard to tell what had caused the injury through the feathers. Perhaps a brief run-in with a fox, or if not, with a misjudged wind and an unfortunately placed rock. Either way, there was definitely a broken bone.

“Hey, hey.” Iceland peered at the wing. “It’s okay. We’ll get you back on your feet - or your wings, I guess - in no time. Shhh…”

The puffin stared up at him, silent. As he reached out with the towel, she cowered away, hobbling backward until she met the hard orange beak of Mr Puffin. He honked something quiet and unintelligible and pushed her back toward Iceland. 

“I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help.”

Trying his best not to spook her any more, Iceland reach out and placed the towel around the puffin, careful of the injured wing. It was important to keep her warm and comfortable, since the broken wing inhibited her ability to look after herself. 

Meanwhile, Mr Puffin busied himself with the puffling, building them a (hopefully) temporary nest in the fruit bowl. Iceland laughed as he attempt the wrestle a paper straw from the recycling bin, shaking the puffling away from his tail feathers. It was like watching a toddler try to help its dad build IKEA furniture. 

"Honk," he complained. 

It took a while, but Iceland managed to tie a makeshift splint to the puffin’s wing. He sat back to admire his handiwork. Not too tight so as to cut off blood flow, but tight enough to keep the bones in place while they waited to get her to a vet. Who he’d better call now, actually.

The puffling stuck its head out the fruit bowl when he passed, a branch of heather clinging to its feathers. It was quite a bare nest - just a handful of wet plants Mr Puffin had scavenged from outside. It was late now, and Iceland realised the vet’s office would be closed for the night. Sighing, he looked down at the little bird. “We can get you a better bed than that.”

  
  


Night fell quick in the northern winter. Not long after Iceland had put the finished nest-box a safe distance in front of the heater, the snow began to fall, quick and heavy, suffocating the earth and covering the Eastern Fjords in a thick blanket of ice. 

After a couple minutes, the steady  _ beep, beep, beep _ of the alarm clock was accompanied by a more impatient honking and a pale arm stretched up. A hand slapped the shelf, then again, then finally managed to hit the snooze button.  _ Ah, peace and quiet. _

It took about five seconds for the honking to start up again.

“Okay, okay! Fine!”

Iceland rolled over, dislodging the rude bird from his seat on his back. Blearily, he opened one eye. A beady orange one stared back.

“You know, if you don’t move, I’m staying here.”

Mr Puffin considered it. Clearly, he had other plans for Iceland today, because he honked again - right in his ear - and flew off. 

Iceland sat up. Checking his phone - cool, five texts from Hong Kong - he rolled onto the floor. His bedsheets slid off onto him. Nice. He laid there for a few minutes before the honking came back, louder and more incessant than ever.

“What do you want? It’s fucking… 7AM, can’t you shut up for a moment?”

What he wanted, apparently, was breakfast. Iceland threw a kipper at him and the honking cut out, leaving a comfortable silence. He made himself a coffee and sat at the table, taking in the orange glow of the artificial light. Sun wouldn’t be up for hours yet. Outside, fields of snow stretched as far as the eye could see. Which, admittedly, was not very far right now. But “for about three feet, as far as he could tell” was a lot less poetic, so he made some assumptions.

In the living room, the box near the heater lay quiet and still, sleepy as the early morning. After a little wiggling, a tiny head popped out and chirped its greeting. Its mum gazed warily at him through a half-open eye.

“Hi,” Iceland said, immediately feeling a bit dumb for talking to a puffin. “I brought breakfast.”

He set the plate down on the rug and waited. The puffins eyed the fish, unmoving. He moved the plate a bit closer.

Still nothing.

Sighing, Iceland picked up the fish. “Come on, it’s not gonna hurt you.”

The puffins just stared. They needed to eat, they knew that, right? Especially the mother, if she wanted her injury to heal. He held the fish out to her again, but she just looked at it, suspicious. Why wasn’t she eating? He thought back to the first time he’d met Mr Puffin. He’d been quite content to steal his lunch… maybe it was because he’d already eaten some? So it seemed safer?

Well, then.  _ Here goes nothing _ .

Iceland lifted the raw fish to his mouth, hesitating. God, he didn’t want to do this.

The puffins watched silently as he bit into the uncooked meat, his face contorting into a disgusted scowl as he tried not to retch. He’d only taken one bite before the mother puffin limped toward him, sitting herself down by his knees. She looked up, expectant.

“Oh, so  _ now _ you want it.”

Iceland yanked the fish out his mouth and threw it onto the carpet, not caring about the mess it would make. Running to the kitchen, he heaved into the sink, desperately downing the rest of his coffee to wash the feeling out. Zero out of ten, never doing that again. A voice in the back of his mind insisted it was no different to sushi, but he reminded himself that sushi generally didn’t involve deepthroating a raw fish. Never again.

On the bright side, the puffins seemed quite happy to eat his leftovers. 

When he opened the front door, a heap of snow tumbled onto his feet. He sighed.  _ Gross, wet socks.  _ Outside, the snow seemed pretty deep, piling up in great drifts on the sides of hills and cliffs. Iceland tried to remember where exactly the bird sanctuary was - oh,  _ no. _

No, there was no way in hell they were getting there in this weather. Slamming the door, H e eyed Mr Puffin, who was busy checking out his reflection in the oven door. 

Time to babysit some wild birds, then. Why did life feel the need to do this to him?


End file.
